


Hear Me, See Me, Know Me

by bigsunglasses



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsunglasses/pseuds/bigsunglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>On a morning in late summer, as the whole Ethuveraz sweated under a sky that had been cloudless for months, the Empress told her husband that she was pregnant.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear Me, See Me, Know Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to somebraveapollo for an excellent beta!

On a morning in late summer, as the whole Ethuveraz sweated under a sky that had been cloudless for months, the Empress told her husband that she was pregnant.

"Doctor Ushenar confirmed it," she added, after a moment of silence. 

And, "It is still very early, but rumours will fly now that the doctor has been seen in my apartments.”

And, “My sisters tell me it is best to acknowledge nothing publicly, until the matter be more advanced."

Maia's heart beat like the wings of a dove. "Pregnant."

"Yes."

They turned around a corner of the stoa, silken summer robes whispering. Walking in the Alcethmeret garden before breakfast had become a ritual since their wedding, a precious moment of exercise and solitude before the full bloom of the day. The colonnades shaded them a little from the energetic morning sun, but today seemed to Maia even more airless than usual. The heat blurred his sight and clamped at his throat.

"It is a common side effect of marriage."

There was a bite to Csethiro's voice, a tone to which he had grown unaccustomed, for it belonged to the days before they came to know each other. He looked up sharply, cheeks and ears flushing. "Yes. Yes, of course." His mouth was full of emptiness. His heart and head were full of things that he could not identify. Something must be said, and now. "Csethiro, I am happy. Art well? Hast any needs?"

She came to a pause, looking him full in the face. Her eyes met his. He knew she sought something, and did not know if she found it, or if she found anything at all. “No,” she said. “I need nothing. Shall we go in for breakfast?”

“Of course.”

They turned, not a quarter of the way around the garden. Passing Cala and Beshelar, they went indoors.

At the breakfast table Csethiro devoted her attention to letters and her secretary, and Maia gave none of his attention to Csevet's summary of his own correspondence. His hands seemed to belong to someone else, slicing and scooping breakfast with tranquillity while the word _pregnant_ sat inside him leadenly, souring everything he consumed. His heart and mind grew more and more clouded until he could endure not a moment longer. He stood, startling Isheian, who had been replacing his cup of tea. Her ears twitched, astonished, and he was ashamed but could not find the words to apologise.

“Serenity, is something wrong?” asked Cala softly, from behind him.

“We are going to the Mich'othasmeire,” said Maia, to his nohecharis, to the room, to himself.

At the far end of the table, Csethiro's flow of dictation did not falter.

“Serenity!” One hand holding a pen, the other an apricot, Csevet looked as startled as a caught fish. He blinked once, twice. “But there is to be a meeting of the Corazhas in a quarter of an hour.”

“They may proceed without me. I mean, without us.” Feeling as uncontrolled as if he skittered across the winter-frozen marshes of Edonomee, Maia went to the door. His nohecharei came after him, exchanging sharp looks that they thought he did not see: and Csevet came too, apricot abandoned, pen stuck through his hair like a tashin stick, clutching hurried stacks of papers in his arms. _No. Go away!_ Maia bit his tongue against the words. He belonged to these people. 

“Csevet, postpone the Corazhas, please. We must pray.”

“Serenity - ”

“There is nothing urgent. A postponement will harm no one.”

He was not doing this right. He was not right. 

In the chapel that once had been his mother's there were no fresh candles, and two canons with baskets of old wax who dropped to their knees in alarm. Maia came to a stop, awkward. “We are sorry we did not send our usual warning of arrival,” he told the canons, and then rode out a long and awkward interval of being the motionless centre of a flutter of activity, as new candles were brought post-haste, and the area cleared. By then he regretted the urge that had brought him here. He was restless, running inside, his mind as far from contemplation as it ever could be, but now he had caused all this fuss he must follow it through.

At last Cala and Beshelar retreated respectfully to the chapel's entrance, and Maia sat, cross-legged. His edocharei had not dressed him with religion in mind this morning, and though his robes were summer fabrics they were still cut to careful lines. His position was far from comfortable.

_Cstheio Careizhasan, hear me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, see me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, know me._

But no: he must think of his breathing first, before the mantra. That was what Chenelo had always taught him. In, and out, and let the exhalations be longer than the inhalations.

_Cstheio Careizhasan, hear me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, see me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, know me._

Csethiro was pregnant.

His breathing shattered, and his head bowed forward. The image that had been growing since Csethiro's announcement now dominated his mind entirely: the imperial figure of Varenechibel IV, looking down a thousand miles of distance and disgust at his unwanted half-breed offspring. At over a decade's remove, Maia trembled as if he was still that newly motherless boy of eight, and his father loomed greater and closer until Maia could feel him, was sure he must have left his half-built tomb in the Untheileneise'meire and come to deride his moon-wit heir -

Maia whipped his head around so fast that the nerves and muscles in his neck caught and jabbed.

Of course there was no one behind him but his nohecharei, guarding the chapel's entrance, eyes respectfully averted from Maia's devotions.

He rose on legs that trembled, fighting to keep his breathing calm. _What is this spectre that thou let chase thee? What fear eats thy mind? Fool, fool._

He had not even lit the candles. What a hobgoblin! He had forgotten all the discussions with his chaplain of Barizheise mysticism, all the things the Archprelate had told him of his mother's religious practice. Meditation had ever been his solace; today he needed it more than ever.

_Cstheio Careizhasan, hear me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, see me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, know me._

One of the canons had left a box of matches on a little ledge to Maia's right. He took it up with fingers that grew slowly more steady as he moved around the chapel, lighting the candles that stood on golden holders in the long, thin windows. One breath taken in as he struck the match; the same breath released as he lit the wick, released gently so as not to disturb the nascent flame. In the window-glass his faint shadow followed him, all but obscured by the sun without and the fire within.

When they were all glowing, he returned to the bright centre of the chapel, and knelt at the centre of the golden triskelion embedded in the floor.

The thick stone of the othasmeire's structure kept the interior tolerably cool, even in this weather. Against his backside and legs the flagstones were temperate, and the triskelion warmed gently from contact with his body. He began to breathe consciously again, and lose himself in the mantra. Thoughts rose; and fell again when he did not allow himself to dwell on them. Rose, and fell. Slowly came ever closer to lucidity. He was himself in the Mich'othasmeire; neither the unwanted Archduke Maia Drazhar nor the unexpected Edrehasivar VII, but whatever soul it was they had in common. Here he could be free.

At last, the shape of a fear became clear, a fear he had never known or acknowledged before. His consciousness unfolded outwards from meditation. Gone was his previous inchoate, unnamed sense of horror: now his mind was focused tight as a belt on its dread.

A rustle of skirts caught his attention, gentle as butterfly's wings. Csethiro was beside him, kneeling in the Ethuverazheise fashion. From the corner of his eye he saw her hands clasped in prayer, pale face bowed respectfully.

She did not speak. She had never laughed at his meditations, never demanded that he chatter and flirt like the courtiers she moved among so easily, never demanded he be other than he was. She had given, and given, and given, and what had been her lot in return? To be Empress.

“I had forgot.” His voice hitched. “I have been so happy discovering our marriage, Csethiro, I had forgot the possibility of children.”

“Thou art lucky,” said Csethiro – dryly, but the bite in her voice was gone. “An Empress's waistline is the property of the nation.”

“And when thou told me - “ He persevered, resolute, determined to give her honesty. “I thought first of my father, and then of Setheris. I was afraid.” He swallowed. “I am afraid.”

Her hands slid out of their pious posture, and she reached out and turned his face to look at hers. “Thou,” she said, “are neither Varenechibel IV nor Setheris Nelar.”

“I ... fear that I have no better models than they.”

“Maia, think not of such things. Would'st do better to worry about finding the time to be a father!” As best as she could with her mess of fashionable skirts, Csethiro wiggled into a cross-legged position facing him. “Best to put it in the schedule far in advance; I will tell Csevet tomorrow to set aside blocks of thy diary next year for playing. Singing. Lessons in statecraft.”

Her practical levity went awry. Maia's voice shook as he asked, “What kind of life is that for a child?” His thoughts flew to those eight quiet years at Isvaroë, and his mother's devotion. Those fleeting years had let him survive all the years afterwards.

“It is a normal life,” replied Csethiro. “For an infant of high birth. It can be very happy. Ask Idra. Ask Ino. Ask Mireän.” Her chin went up. “And besides, the babe will have me, too. I do not subscribe – and nor do thee, I think – to the current fashion of leaving matters entirely to nurses until the child can read. I have observed my sisters and younger aunts raise their children, and thus formed many opinions on the matter.”

He leant forward and placed his head on her lap, scarce able to believe that inches from his head a tiny new heart was beating. “Csethiro. I cannot imagine thee as anything other than a magnificent mother. But, merciful goddesses, _I do not know how to be a father_!”

Her hands ruffled through his hair, dishevelling his edocharei's best efforts and adornments. “Of course thou dost, dear one,” she replied. “In whose chapel do we sit? Is a mother's love really that different from a father's? Besides, if thou goest wrong, I promise to correct thee.” A tiny kiss landed on his left ear.

The words shivered down through skin and bone into his head and heart. A great astonishment spread through him. He sat up, first staring at the candles glowing around them, then at Csethiro. She returned his regard steadily, mouth a little askew, as if she wanted to smile but was not sure. Candlelight caught against her hair, making her radiant in the dimness.

A gentler spectre came now to him, one to whom Csethiro would also have been beloved. Chenelo Drazharan had known how to love a child, and of course, _of course_ Maia could never forget that, could never lose his way as long as she lived in his heart.

The last of his horror faded, and something else replaced it, sparkling through him till his breath caught, as all-consuming a sensation as before, but a thousand times more welcome. 

_Anticipation._

“Csethiro,” he said, “art well? Art in any discomfort? I am so sorry for my foolish thoughts, for spoiling thy moment of revelation.”

The smile came out. “Hast seven more months to pamper me, fear not.” 

“May I - ” Wonderingly, he gestured at her waist.

“Of course.” She leant back on her arms, and he touched and felt - 

He could not restrain smiling back at her. “Thy corset is rather in the way.”

She laughed. “The doctor tells me I should cease to wear it after the third month.”

Two of the candles suddenly gusted out in a cool draft. Maia looked up, and saw to his astonishment grey clouds beyond the windows, and raindrops beginning to spatter against the glass. There was an exclamation of pleasure from Cala in the doorway: Maia looked at his nohecharei, flushing, remembering they would have heard everything, and discovered Cala beaming and Beshelar looking into the distance in a particularly wooden way that Maia had learned meant deep emotion.

“Oh, splendid!” cried Csethiro, coming to her feet. “The gardens will be green again – I do so hate the dust!”

Maia rose to stand beside her, still grinning, and took her hand. “I am happy,” he told her.

“Of course thou art,” she said, with a look that said she knew just what he meant, “because this is just in time to save the harvest, I should think.” Her hand squeezed his tightly.

He stepped closer to Csethiro, leaning against her, sinking into the feeling of her warm body, the sunny scent of her hair. There was a smile on his face that he could not shake, and though anxiety still mixed with anticipation it did not have the upper hand. He had her, and he had the memory of his mother, and here in the Mich'othasmeire he had Cstheio Careizhasan also. A child! Here was a bridge into the future, and he could learn to build it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the prompt "forced to face fear" on my hc_bingo card (http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com).


End file.
